Salvation Under a Breath
by Caela Illu
Summary: Alistair wanders into Amaranthine, Neria is slowly coming undone and Nathaniel struggles to make sense of his family's disgrace. The Wardens spiral into darknesses of their own making, and are forced to confront what lurks deep in their heart of hearts.
1. Chapter 1

**Salvation Under a Breath**

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, settings, lore or anything in this story. All of it was taken from BioWare's Dragon Age.

Summary: An exiled Alistair finds himself in Amaranthine, faced with a Neria Surana whom he hardly recognizes. She, an Arlessa, Commander and most of all Blood Mage, and he, a drunken, crazed empty husk of himself; they must face what the Landsmeet has wrought in both their lives. This is the beginning of the end. F!Surana/Alistair, dark and twisted

Chapter I : A Tenuous Hold

* * *

If there was one thing Warden-Commander Neria Surana calls an ill omen, it would be Seneschal Varel clearing his throat.

He was doing it now, in a most inconspicuous and genteel manner as any other could, but it never fails to precede bad news. Or difficult decisions. She sighs inwardly, her back still turned to him just as the last of the nobles trickle through the double doors and her companions visibly relax. Court that day had been tiring, especially after yesterday's trek from Amaranthine to see to the disposition of the city. The trip had been most fruitful, though, with gathering new leads for them to follow concerning the talking Darkspawn, the encounter with Nathaniel's sister and the cutting down of Templars.

Especially the cutting down of Templars.

She feels a hand the color of winter grasp her heart and give it a little twist, just enough to make her suck in a breath. She closes her eyes and breathes the soft hiss of hurt out, a smile assuming its place in her next heartbeat.

She shifts noiselessly on her feet and spins around quickly to face her seneschal. "Yes, Varel?"

She almost forgets to listen to him while she keeps the smile on his face. The man's calm, ineffectual voice rolls off her and though it is a rather self-indulgent thing to do, she imagines the bed in her quarters upstairs.

"…and was thrown in the dungeons before you returned for Court today." Then her wonderfully efficient seneschal gives her a deadpan look. She sometimes thinks it is the same look he gives Dworkin when the dwarf asks if it safe to test his bombs. But at this moment, she knows it is because he is waiting for her to speak.

_If he was talking about dungeons that means we have another prisoner. Possibly another recruit. _At this a wry smile paints her weary face and she glances around the hall to find the other Fereldan Wardens looking just as tired, but patiently waiting for her instructions nonetheless.

"Yes, Varel." She offers, turning back to him and nodding in a most helpful way.

"Commander? Yes Varel will what…?" the grey-haired man inclines his head and peers into her eyes, to discern what she means perhaps or most probably to see if she needs to sit down. She remembers his earlier apologies for springing Court on her like he did and how she almost swooned with fatigue.

"Varel will…know when I've seen the prisoner. Right now all everyone wants is a bath and dinner." She tells him, smiling genuinely this time, and she hears faint cheering in the background, mostly from Anders' direction.

"Aye, Commander. Please see me before you do." Varel says it in such a way that there is a sigh hidden beneath it and she feels a bit guilty for not listening closely to him.

_But then again, he deserves it for springing Court on me like that._

As the other Wardens file out of the room, she passes an off-hand question to him about the background of the prisoner and any other information.

"Actually, Commander, I was debating whether I would tell you this sooner or later. I suppose it must be sooner." This was the first time since the Withered on the battlements did she hear Varel's voice catch a tone of foreboding in it.

"What about? The prisoner isn't a talking Darkspawn is it?" she turns slightly to him, after nodding at Nathaniel whose eyes softened just as they met with hers leaving the hall.

"No, Commander, but he says he knows you." At this, she whips around and her look is questioning.

"Knows me? How?"

Varel gives her a different look this time, and it is most similar to the way First Enchanter Irving looked at her just before she walked away with Duncan a lifetime ago.

The words that spill from his mouth begin a roaring tempest within her, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, she feels much like a girl caught in a storm at sea. He speaks slowly and though it is the gentlest she has ever heard him speak to her, if that was even possible, the roaring in her head and the speed at which he heart is plummeting increases and she knows if she does not move now, in this very moment, she will crumple to the ground.

Her fingers dance across her throat, her breathing beginning to become difficult and before Varel even finishes what he is saying, she turns around and sprints out the double doors, not seeing the tall, dark, lanky figure leaning against the wall waiting for her, or the sharp call of her name from Anders, who has never seen his fellow mage and Commander run quite as fast as she is doing right now _would you look at her legs_.

_You fool you idiot what are you doing here they will kill you where have you been why did you leave oh is it you is it you is it you_

A long-dead yearning in her heart begins to stir, and she feels as if the tips of her fingers and the edges of her robes are unraveling, her heart soaring and plummeting at the same time.

Just the remote possibility that Alistair may be the man in the dungeons is making her come undone. By the time she is at the top of the steps leading to the Courtyard, she is pleading, to no entity she can name, and for something she is not even sure of. But it is a plea, and the most earnest one she has ever made, more earnest than her desire to die by the hand of a Tainted god.

_Please._

She calls on her magic, allowing her to jump from the top step of the Keep entrance to the bottom where Sargeant Maverlies and Dworkin give her pointed glances as she almost tears the door to the prisons off.

* * *

And this is not at all like the time she saw Nathaniel for the first time, a quiet, burning aura behind the bars, a look dripping with hatred steady and smoldering in her direction.

This time is not like that at all, and almost as soon as she is in the prisons she feels she needs to turn around and run far far away, possibly somewhere familiar, like the Circle Tower, or Redcliffe, or the Deep Roads, anywhere but here because she does not know how to face this, not like the Darkspawn, even if some of them talk, because she'd rather hear the murmuring, the groaning and the growling instead of…

Instead of the same voice that called her a traitor, a disgrace…the voice that told her she betrayed Duncan and everything the Wardens stood for when she agreed to spare a man's life.

A weak smile. Her name from his lips in an apologetic, exhausted, haunting whisper.

"Neria."

Like the rake of claws against the chamber of her heart. She is unable to reply.

"So its true then? That two-faced bitch made you Commander? I suppose its only fitting." The sudden shift in his voice is almost as frightening as the Withered's grating tone. It slices through her like a poisoned blade, leaving flesh torn and corrupted in its wake. "You're just like him, you know. You're her Howe. Ah the irony of it all."

"Wh—what are you saying…Alistair?" it is in this moment she knows true weakness, she is rooted to the spot where she stands and knows his words will hurt her more.

"Just like her father. Rewards those who are..loyal." he drawls the last word out in his implacable accent, and a memory within her is shattered, a memory about a campfire and lampposts, a memory she had been holding onto the past few months just to keep herself from unraveling.

She sucks in a breath in an audible gasp, her hand flying to her mouth, and then sees that he is the second man behind those bars to speak to her like that with eyes that hold nothing but hatred.

"She even gave you a whole Arling! A mage with her very own Arling! Oh I beg your pardon, my lady," again with the familiar drawl, wrapped around words that get worse by the moment. "I forgot my manners. I am your humble servant….Arlessa Neria."

He says everything with so much malice, his voice high at times, almost maniacal in his ravings, and it makes her stop to listen to more than his words and see more than the duster, as the dwarves would say, in front of her.

She narrows her eyes and peers at him closely, noticing the twitch of his fingers as they dangle from his knees, sees the veins along his neck bulge as he throws his head back in an indulgent, mocking laugh.

Her initial trepidation and uncertainty solidifies into a smoldering rage, as she hears the high lilts of his laughter, and her hands ball to fists at his side and before she knows it, her blood is singing and a desire to crush a bastard prince is born in her heart. Her hand itches for her sword, dangling daintily on her hip, but her hand passes over it.

* * *

"Private," she barks, more at the prisoner than at the soldier standing guard. "Open the cell."

"Yes Commander!" the young soldier nods curtly, glad to see his arlessa finally looking and speaking like herself. Seeing her so distraught makes him itch to chastise the prisoner, a pommel to the temple, effective and painful.

Just as the soldier unlocks the cell door and it swings open, he feels a dark shadow speed past him and swirl around the prisoner, who suddenly jerks in awkward, almost painful movements.

The Commander steps past him, almost imperiously, and he can see red flames licking the outline of her body, and a familiar smell fills the room, much akin to the smell of rust and dirty water. The private steps out of the cell and positions himself by the door of the prisons, trying to think where he knows this scent that is rolling off the Commander in waves. If moments before he describes her as confused at the least, now, murderous is a mild way of describing how she seems.

"Thank you, Private, please fetch the seneschal now. Return with no one but him, and speak not of this to anyone. " She tells him calmly, and he hesitates only slightly before going out the door. "Yes, Commander."

It is as he is halfway up the steps to the Main Hall that he realizes what the Commander smells like. He is horrified and in awe at the same time, and he cannot help but glance where he came from, his heart fills with equal parts admiration and fear for his Arlessa.

She smells of blood. The Commander smells like blood and magic.

* * *

"Can you feel that?" she steps close to him, with footsteps he cannot hear, and eyes that rival any darkspawn's in malice. "Do you know what that is, Alistair?"

She drawls his name out like a lover would, no, like a demon would, and he, unable to move a bone in his body stares helplessly as she is directly in front of him, her small, elfin face inches below his own. She looks up at him, and her smile is nothing like he remembers at all. Her smile, which used to shine with the Maker's light, now sends his heart further into the depths he has already buried it in, for it is the smile of a predator.

Seeing her again provides him with a moment of sanity, a brief reprieve through his constant drunken and magical haze. The mere outline of her body he recognizes, and it jolts his heart awake after so many months for the first time. But for the price of that moment, he finds that she exacts payment in suffering now. Suffering and blood.

He itches for the vials that were strapped to his belt, the skin full of ale and the small vials…Tinkling enticingly against each other, blue liquid swishing in a promise of sleep void of visions of her.

From the moment of the first sip, no, from the moment he reached for the vial after finding he had no more money to buy even the cheapest swill, he knew he was paying a price as well. Insanity and dependency for the cessation of her face in his torment. The cessation of guilt, the cessation of fever dreams and voices from the shadows. He so looked forward to it, and reveled in it, finally being able to indulge in his hatred for her, instead of his tenuous hold on his desire and anger, trying to keep in perfect balance the two. But now, he sees that for lyrium-induced stability, he shall pay in having his whole world pulled from beneath him, and the only thing anchoring him would be the balance he tried to let go of before. The tenuous hold, the fine line of obsession is returned to him, and he almost feels he regrets coming to Amaranthine to seek her out.

A stray thought enter his mind,

_Why did I come to Amaranthine anyway?_

It is hard to focus, and the vision of her before him steals his discipline away.

He is still unable to move, safe for swiveling his eyeballs, and as he can see her small form enveloped in a steadily- burning flame, new founts of anger and hatred well up inside him.

"Blood magic. Yes, you insipid Templar, you cowardly, treacherous Warden." Her hand reaches up to rub his cheek affectionately, calloused, scarred fingertips running across his face and neck.

He is disgusted and thrilled at the same time.

"Shall I add more reasons for you to hate me?" this time he presses her body to his, and through his rags of clothing and her thin robes, he remembers every moment they shared in his tent, and every inch of her skin is an image brought to life behind his eyes. He finds his arms encircling her, and even if he wasn't being controlled, he suspects he would do the same. He feels her head come up to inhale at the junction of his neck and shoulders.

She chuckles, and he knows she is aware of his shame. His hands fall uselessly to his sides, but he is still unable to move. She steps back, and he finds her giggling at him, each tinkle of her laughter cutting at him.

"It is so good to have you back Alistair. We have much to catch up on…" she eyes him up and down, and the look in her eyes is hungry, he feels he is being devoured.

Then she tosses something into the corner of his cell, and his eyes see the blue fluid in a flask fly through the air. He feels the muscles in the neck tighten and his throat become dry.

She turns away and begins to walk out the door just as the man who had captured him earlier appears. His eyes are drawn to the corner where the potion was flung.

Just as the grey-haired man closes the door to his cell with a noisy clang, he is released from her hold and slumps to the floor. There is not strength left in him, and his face is in the filth of the floor, but it is a position familiar to him.

It is a testament to how pathetic he has become when he begins to crawl to the corner, his eyes already searching for the glint of blue liquid in a glass vial.

* * *

~end of Chapter I

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	2. Chapter 2

**Salvation Under a Breath**

Disclaimer: BioWare owns all the characters, setting and lore found in the fanfic and not me.

* * *

**Chapter II**

At the bottom of a rickety stepladder beneath his childhood home, Nathaniel Howe feels the first stirrings of the Taint, though he does not know it.

The sensation is very much like he forgot something of great importance, but is not able to place in his mind. He looks down to check his equipment, his potions and poisons, even so far as to mind his bow and quiver. Everything is there, just as he knew they would be, having prepared himself quite thoroughly hours before. But still, he feels as if there is something most important he has forgotten, and a gnawing in his chest and stomach begins.

Uneasiness could only begin to describe the sensation.

He sees the dwarf swing a large battle axe forward and the Warden Commander reach behind her and hold her staff perpendicularly to herself at her side, her stance going lower and her pace slowing. She tucks her hair behind her ear, the first feminine gesture he has ever seen her make. The mage at his side is taken aback a moment and glances about, patting his robes and checking his own equipment. Perhaps they are both feeling the same sensation of unease.

"Oghren. Nathaniel. Anders." She calls their names gently and he comes to attention. It will take a little getting used to hearing his name so familiarly from her lips. "Darkspawn are approaching."

Nathaniel strings his bow and nocks an arrow at the ready, lowering it as they advance. In his head, he recalls the Commander's orders just before they descended beneath the Keep, and though at that time he still could not bring himself to look her straight in the face, he listens well.

* * *

He supposes she is an expert at this sort of thing, since she purportedly stopped a Blight mere weeks before. They take their counsel just outside the prisons of the Keep, on the stairs leading up to the battlements on the outer wall of the Keep. He and Anders are seated on the first step while the dwarf sits much higher.

The robes she wears are cut in the Tevinter style, but are a bright, sky blue, which immediately brings attention to how her eyes are the bluest he's ever seen, and the most fathomless as well. Her hair is secured by three sharp spikes in a messy bun. He sees several places where an expert hand has cut and sewn them to fit her size as well as mend damage. Around both arms and high on her thighs are long, raised and puckered scars that look a month healed.

He looks pointedly and curiously at a thin, unfamiliar-looking longsword dangling at her hip, finding it enchanted with several runes. He has not met many mages, but he knows that it is not common for a mage to carry anything sharper than a dagger.

Of all the things to ask before a darkspawn skirmish, she asks for help. Apparently the bow slung at his back is for ogling.

_Oghren and I will take point, this will be your first or second time fighting them, so observe them as much as you observe Oghren and me._

_Short stubby ones are the genlocks. Deal with them like you would deal with a dwarf. Hurlocks are about human size, try to kill them before they rage. If a shriek comes after you, they're the lanky ones that sneak, stun them and call out for a spell._

_Leave the Ogres to me and Oghren. If they come after either of you, lead them to us or call for help._

_You don't have to cover me, but it would be helpful if you can follow through with my attacks. The more we get used to working together, the higher the chances we can finish this in time for supper._

She says this as if she is certain their foray into the Deep Roads beneath the Keep will be short and uneventful. Oghren laughs out a harheharhar and beams up at her.

_When I freeze something, hit it hard if you can, they go down easier that way._

_If you see anything casting anything, that's most probably an emissary. Deal with that first. Nathaniel, a well-aimed and powerful shot will be most helpful. Anders, if I haven't taken care of it yet do it yourself., Nathaniel, if you can stun the ranged fighters it would also be very helpful._

There it is again. That word. Helpful. Underneath it all, he knows she is asking him, "Nathaniel, please don't be a schmuck and be helpful."

If she doesn't think he could be of any help, why is he even here? As he had told her, he would rather hang.

It does not seem to him that she wishes to look down on him and the mage, but the look on her face shows more worry for them rather than frustration at their status as new Wardens.

_I will do my best to keep track of injuries, but use all the poultices and potions you need. Ask for cover if you need it._

_If Anders or I will cast something large we will give warning, and I expect you (at this she looks pointedly at him) to move back but keep firing. (She looks at Oghren and gives him a small smile) And I expect our nug humper here to sit the spell out and swing harder._

_Give me your best shot, Commander. You too, manskirt, says the dwarf._

What in the world is a nug?

But it is her final order that makes him look at her more closely, it is that which gives insight to what she thinks of the men she has recruited to be like her. It seems to him descending several miles underground is a normal occurrence for her, and it almost makes her seem pompous and relaxed.

_In this, you must survive. There are only…four of us in all Ferelden and that number must not diminish. I am here to rebuild the Order and stop whatever the darkspawn are doing. You are here because I believe..no, because I know you can help me. I need you, all of you. Always keep that in mind. None of you are expendable._

At this, she stands up and motions for them to do so as well. Both he and Anders tower over her and he looks down at her and braces himself. The next words from her mouth stun him.

_If it ever gets desperate, run back. Dworkin knows to bomb the entrance if it comes to that. If I tell you to run, you run and don't look back. I am always the first one in and the last one out. If something happens to me, Varel will send for other Wardens and you will tell them everything. Is that understood?_

She says this in a tone that offers no room for discussion, and looks up at him straight into his eyes. He finds it impossible to look away from hers of bluest blue, and perhaps he imagines it, but she compels him to nod.

* * *

Nathaniel hates to admit it, but he is in awe of her.

He is in awe of her technique, a combination of unfamiliar but beautiful swordsmanship and magic. She wields her thin, elven blade like a part of her own body and in between strikes, magic erupts from her hands. And just when he thinks she has nothing left in her, she begins to shimmer, the air around seemingly so hot it distorts his image of her and he finds that she is strangely translucent.

Then the darkspawn start collapsing around her, all on their own. She stands there, her sword sheathed once again at her side, though her fingers dance on the pommel.

"See you picked up some new tricks after the Blight." Oghren grinned at her, then at all the darkspawn sprawled immobile around her. "Pretty handy there. You're also getting better at keeping their blood of you."

"I read a book," she shrugged, and Nathaniel could see her clearly again. "Come on, there's a lot more this way."

What waited at the bottom of the cellar turns his blood to ice, and just when he feels he cannot lose anymore, something is torn from him again.

The Commander imprisons his old governess in a column of light as she and Oghren dispatch the rest of the tainted servants. Finally, all they are left with is Adria, and he can hear her muffled screaming from inside the barrier.

"We must help her!" he tells her frantically, but the look of difficulty on her face, makes him pause and understand what she is thinking without words. "There must be a way!"

His head whipped around to look at Anders, who looked down and could not meet his eyes.

She looks up at him, her eyes full of sadness, but free of pity. She shakes her head and lays her palm gently on his arm, squeezing softly.

"She's too far along the taint, Howe." Oghren steps up beside him, armor and axe clanking noisily. "From the looks of it, she's been stewing in it fer a couple of days."

"I'm sorry…Nathaniel, but she's not Adria anymore. If you want, I can do it gently." She offers, and he sees the thing wearing his nanny's skin try to go for him from beyond the barrier. Its face twists in frustration and it screams reverberate all through the cavern.

"Do it." He says and turns away.

The column of light fades, but the ghoul is unable to move. From the corner of his vision, he can see her raise her arms and feel magic ripple the air around her.

He turns around when she lowers her arm. The ghoul lies in a crumpled heap. He does not look down as he steps over it, and rounds the bend in the cavern. Moments later, she catches up to him and grasps his arm again. He expects her to tell him to guard their rear again, but instead, changes their formation with him beside her instead of the dwarf.

"I had a friend who could stun lots of darkspawn with just one shot. Can you do that?" she asked him.

Upon replying with a nod, he momentarily forgets the death of the ghoul and is rewarded with a small smile. This is the first smile she has ever given him. At once, he feels something twinge in the pit of his stomach.

She claps her hands together softly and her smile widens. He is taken aback at her childlike gesture, since she proved herself to be the serious Commander of the Grey not a few hours ago.

"Splendid! Stun as many as you can, I'll try to keep them away from you so you don't have to put your bow down, all right?" he could almost see her jump up and down in undisguised glee.

Even facing an unnaturally strong ogre (unnaturally strong, according to Oghren and her, but it was the first Ogre he faced so perhaps this came as a relief), she breaks all conventions and runs up to Oghren who is already swinging his monster of a sword and climbs up the dwarfs back in one jump and slashes down hard at the fiend, encasing the massive darkspawn in ice just as her blade connects.

The monster shatters, frozen blood and flesh flying about. She smiles at Oghren and gives him a high-five of all things.

They do not see the spectral image form behind them, but he does, and he lets an arrow fly just past her cheek.

"Commander!" Anders shouts, from behind him, and a column of light encases her just as the spectral ogre's claws come slashing down. She is unharmed but surprised, and whips around to look up at the large ghost.

He hears her muffled voice through the barrier the mage had cast. "Nathaniel, knock it back! Anders, help Oghren!"

Taking the least possible time needed, he lets fly an arrow he is sure will set the ogre a few paces back. This does not happen though, but it does bring on some kind of pained howling.

"Stupid, possessed…augh!" he hears her growl beside him just as Anders' barrier drops and she leaps forward, throwing lightning at the ogre and joining Oghren in the fray.

The battle becomes furious, more magical and less melee, he himself reaching for a quiver of enchanted arrows, heat and steel left in his arrows' wake. The spectral ogre takes much longer to fell, and when they see its hulking form dissipate, black smoke begins to curiously curl around them.

"Anders, do you see it?" the Commander asks in a shout, sliding her sword back into the scabbard at her side in one fluid movement and picking up her discarded staff to pump it up for a spell.

"Andraste's knickers, yes, Commander! I'll try to…Dammit, I can't hold it!" the taller, blond mage holds his outstretched arm in his other arm, as if trying to hold something in a spell, but after a few moments, he is thrown back a few feet and falls on his bottom, sweat beading his forehead.

"What is it, ye blasted mages?" the dwarf swings his axe around, hoping to catch a hit on the thing only the mages could see.

Nathaniel suppresses a frustrated groan. His first day on the job was proving more difficult and taxing to his psyche than he expected. Already, his stomach was rumbling in protest of emptiness and the tunnels before them seemed to go on forever.

Add to that only two people among them could see their opponent now.

Indeed, this was shaping up to be one of those days when Nathaniel wishes he never left the Free Marches.

* * *

True to her word, she is the last one to ascend the rickety stepladder and step out into the Courtyard. Nathaniel's biceps throb from all his efforts in the Deep Roads, but not as much as he had expected. Surely the lightness of his quivers and the color of his blades are testament to how long and hard he had fought down below. In truth, he remembers no time in his life before this day when he has but five filthy arrows in his quiver and his blades sticky and thick with so much blood.

Adria's shrill screaming and corrupted visage flash before his eyes, and he closes his eyes, forcing the images away.

Anders is dusting himself off, and leans against the rail surrounding Dworkin's furnace. Oghren and the Commander speak quietly, small smiles playing on their faces. As Nathaniel tries to flex the sore, protesting muscles of his arms, he hears a bellow of outrage from the dwarf who then shakes his fist in the Commander's face who just smiles down at him, her hands on her hips. It is a strikingly opposite image to the one she just displayed against the darkspawn. She pats a still sputtering and indignant dwarf on the head gently then walks up to him.

He deigns to look away, still unsure of his dealings with her. He pretends to fiddle with his pack, albeit there is nothing of concern with it.

A small, tentative hand is laid on the exposed skin of his arm. He stiffens, chagrin creeping into his eyes as he was actually trying to be unaffected by anything she would do.

"Nathaniel, do you wish to speak of..of Adria?" she asks, and he cannot help but turn to fully face her, and she does not even reach his chest, she is so tiny.

His jaw tightens, and he is unable to answer the question for a moment, but he regains composure before she speaks again. "It is unnecessary, Commander."

"It is, Nathaniel." her blue eyes look up at him, and it is not pity he sees, but something else. "But I understand if it is difficult. Please, I hope you would consider discussing it soon." The soft squeeze on his arm is unwelcome, and he feels slightly appalled at her for treating a man who has admitted to assassinating her with such tenderness.

"How can I discuss _anything_ with the woman responsible for my father's death?" the words spill from his mouth before he can stop them, but he regrets nothing. He is tired, hungry and in need of rest, he will not have this slip of a woman, Commander or not, dictate to him how he deals with the death of Adria. He yanks his arm from her fingertips, and he feels the skin there burn.

He expects her to lash out or use magic on him, but her eyes never waver from him, and a small, sad smile is in place. She looks down, then steps past him.

"Please see me in my study later, Nathaniel. That is an order."

She doesn't wait for a reply, and he is left looking at the ground, implacable grief and hatred eating away at him.

* * *

"I had someone clean it before you came up. I found it when we were below the Keep."

She does not look at him at all, busy flipping through books and maps, while he, the Howe Bow singing to life in his hands, can do nothing but stare at her.

Eventually, she does glance his way, her face unreadable, distracted. "Is it all right? I'm sorry but Master Wade couldn't fix it when I asked him. There is another smith that I know, we can take it there if you want, but he lives all the way in the mines, so we won't be able to do it now—"

He cuts her off.

"It is fixed. Only a Howe can wield it." He holds it out to show her, and she stops for a moment, her face betraying a surge of joy, but it fades just as quickly away. Nathaniel feels slightly guilty.

"Ah. That is good, then? I'm sure you would like to rest. I pushed you hard today. Thank you for your help. That is all." She turns back to her book as she says this, and he feels even guiltier.

"Commander—I…I would like to—"

This time, she cuts him off.

"No need, Nathaniel. It is rightfully yours." She waves her hand dismissively, then stands up and turns around, minding the books on the shelves behind her, this time.

Shame washes over him, and though he knows if he were to stand beside her, she would not reach his shoulders, he feels smaller than Oghren. Her presence in the room becomes a thing of beauty, and he, unable to tear his eyes away, yet unworthy to look upon her.

He regrets lashing out at her. He is undeserving of her kindness. And kind is the only thing she has ever been to him, even from outside the bars of his cell.

But the portrait of his father, large and looming above her seems to look down on him with a sneer.

Nathaniel finds himself sneering back, and excuses himself from the room, his hatred for her faltering.

* * *

He wants to apologize.

No, he needs to apologize.

And perhaps slit his throat at the same time.

He watches her as she holds Court. It is clear she is no noblewoman, but neither is she anyone's subordinate. She carries herself with an air of experience and duty, so unlike the haughty arrogance borne from birthright that is so common. Though he is sure Varel and Woosley would prefer her to address the issues in an Arlessa's glory, he thinks the staff at her back and the sword at her hip are more effective.

Add to that the bloody flecks missed by her quick grooming, he has never seen an Arlessa more formidable than her.

Delilah's words echo in his ears, and fool he is if even his own sister he disbelieves. The momentum of vengeance and rage which sustained him from the Free Marches is gone, and even if he hardly feels free of any burden, he knows the truth. Now, instead of revenge, he seeks atonement, and from all Delilah had told him, it would take perhaps more than his lifetime to even begin to repair the damage his father had done.

Just looking at the bow she gave him makes his stomach churn.

"Hah! Would you look at our Commander. She looks so cute when she tries to look superior." Anders throws an arm over his shoulders, looking on at the Commander as the banns come forward one by one.

"Of course a mage like you wouldn't understand the importance of pledging fealty." He replies.

"Fealty? I bet every single one of them has a knife under their boots! I bet they're all scared stiff she'd turn them into frogs for trying." The tall mage waves adoringly at her from afar, and he sees her shift uncomfortably for the first time. An unpleasant gnawing is born in his heart, seeing how the flippant mage could act so familiarly with her.

"Do not do that." He bites out.

"Why?"

"I will not have you embarrass her in front of the whole Arling." He shoves Anders' arm away, crosses his own on his chest.

The blond mage looks incredulously at him and laughs knowingly behind a curled fist. "Oh, is that so? Very well, Nate. Make sure to stop me next time I try."

Nathaniel ignores him, and is relieved to see the seneschal adjourn Court and the nobles file out of the Main Hall.

_I will talk to her. I will apologize. She deserves so much more, but I can offer nothing but my loyalty and bow arm to her. Someday, I might come close to being worthy of her command, of what she's given me, but for today, I will start with an apology. _

He waits outside the doors, leaning casually against the wall, listening for the sound of soft, tiny feet from the other side. Already, he is trying in his head where to begin, and he finds all the attempts in his head clumsy and seemingly insincere.

But he is unable to say anything to her at all, for that night or for several nights after.

When she bursts through the doors, he sees the look on her face, and he thinks he had the same look on his face when he found out his father was dead.

* * *

**End of Chapter 2**

Please leave a review if you have something to say about my work!


	3. Chapter 3

**Salvation Under a Breath**

_Disclaimer: Lore, characters and setting belong to BioWare._

_Thank you to Melismo for the beta! Check out her Tainted series for yummy Cousland/Alistiar. XD_

* * *

**Chapter III**

Alistair spends his first night in Vigil's Keep feeling nothing but her magic on him.

Though the bottle she had flung at him contained lyrium, the amount was not enough to slake his thirst. The simple meal of soup and bread laid in the corner of his cell is untouched, more out of principle than a satiated stomach.

Indeed, his stomach is nowhere near being satified, but everything else in his body calls for the essence of magic, and it is a yearning that consumes him.

He lies on his side, facing the wall, eyes open but unseeing. Hours after seeing her again since his departure from Denerim, he wonders just how much she has changed in such a short time. It was as if she was a different person who wore the same face. A doppelganger, an evil twin, a…

A _maleficar._

Truly, he never would have guessed.

Her aversion to blood magic had been obvious from the start, especially during their sojourn in the Circle, where she had singlehandedly defeated all the blood mages and abominations and whatever nasties she had found in the Fade, on top of freeing them all and vanquishing a very powerful Sloth Demon. She had taken one look at the Litany of Adralla and proceeded to sing the entire thing throughout their battle with Uldred. He did not know if it was the Litany itself or just her own voice, but the sound of steel and rending flesh was muted in his mind, all he could hear during that battle was her song.

She had never been more enthralling.

But last night, even the outline of her body against the torch had been delicious torture to him, his hands itching to run his fingers along those curves, to use his fingertips to feel them again after so many months, to dig his nails in and scar her, feel her flesh give and tear beneath his hands. It was a disturbingly morbid thought, but a welcome and common one.

When she had locked him in her embrace of blood and magic though, his hands wanted to do nothing more than rip her throat out.

How dare she. She, who had even condemned her best friend to the judgment of Templars for similar abilities, had the gall to use them against him.

But of course. It was the only way a mage could win against a Templar. Or someone who knew how to be a Templar. It was blood magic or possession. He guessed she chose the lesser of two evils.

An evil, nonetheless.

But on the bright side, he thinks, he had never been more sure of a roof over his head or a source of meals. It was a good change from the months of sleeping in the woods, or even the Deep Roads, or that failed journey to Weisshaupt. The sense of something being constant in his life besides the hunger for both liquor and lyrium unfurled a knot inside him.

Even if it is a prison, it somehow feels like home, if only for the reason she is close by.

"…don't want anything to do with any of you. Ever."

A wry smile crawls up the corners of his mouth, as his own words ring in his head and the look on her face when he made it clear he was leaving. Leaving her.

It is a vision that always felt different each time he revisited. Now, it fills him with regret and shame.

He is completely aware of how pathetic he has become. All his bluster at the Landsmeet is gone. There is nothing left in him but thirst, for things he knew and things he didn't.

_Why is he in Amaranthine?_

There is nothing in Amaranthine for him. Nothing but her.

Perhaps he had decided upon something in some recent, drunken, lyrium-drowned stupor and had forgotten about. It was not the first time.

His thoughts are shaken by the grating of the bars of his cage. He tenses. He is supposed to be able to sense it, especially after all this time, but a lot about him is changed, is buried, is lost. The feeling of last night's encounter is brought fresh to his mind, his survival instincts activating but unheeded by his body.

She is back, and her body is aflame with taint and blood.

Alistair turns and sits up, gazing at her through filthy bangs and drugged eyes.

And still, just the outline of her body is enough to awaken him. He had not realized it, but he has lain in the darkness, for how long he does not know, just waiting for her to return.

He decides to play nice this time. There really is nothing he could do against her. Not with her as a blood mage and he as a prisoner. He would come to that soon enough. His fingernails would have to wait.

"Commander." He rasps, and by the way she tenses, he knows he has struck the first blow.

* * *

He calls her 'Commander'.

She throws linen, soap and a razor at him.

She feels like Wynne.

And he says nothing, no snark, no indulgent laugh, no mocking accent. She could have only imagined it, but she thinks she hears him thank her.

"Clean yourself up. You're a disgrace."

Nothing.

" Try not to kill yourself or get yourself killed while I'm gone. It would be a pity, coming all the way to see me just to die."

Still nothing. It rises her hackles like nothing ever has, not even the Knight Commander back at the Tower and his imperious tone. She is never one to be cruel, not even in necessity, but in this, she cannot help herself. It is as if the venom in her voice is a living thing, a monster she cannot contain.

Her hand itches to hurt him. She bends down, taking his rough, filthy face by the jaw and making him turn his eyes up to her through scraggly bangs. His pupils are dilated, the whites cracked with red.

She pushes his face away, and though she is disgusted, it is almost second nature for her to take him into her arms at that moment, seeing how broken he is. She quashes it, fingers digging into the wound she made at her palm to activate her blood magic. The pain makes her hate sing, and she holds the dissonant note.

Unknowingly, her fingers leave a wet trail of blood on his chin.

"Farewell, Alistair." She grits out and drops a few potions into his lap, sweeping imperiously from the room, trailing fire and the scent of blood.

She does not hear his reply or sees how his eyes follow her out the door, fingers caressing the bottles absently. Dirty, callused fingers come up to his chin to wipe at the redness left there, then disappear into the ex-Templar's mouth.

His lips quirk into a small, cruel smile, and his tongue comes out to lick at his cracked lips.

* * *

Nathaniel adjusts his armor. It is a new set, one he finds lying innocently on his bed. He traces the runes on it carefully, and notes the rarity of the design and material. As of all his things, it came from the Warden stores, which was actually equipment that Commander Neria had collected over her journey during the Blight. When she had told him to go down into the armory and take his pick, he did not realize the value of what she had accumulated.

And this was after all her companions had gone through the stores themselves, selecting equipment as 'gifts' from her, at her insistence. Varel had acted the consummate steward, showing off his Arlessa's belongings proudly, and, oddly, knowing almost all the stories behind each piece.

He looks down at the Howe bow, and he knows its story as well. She had found it along with Delilah's unsent letters, and had asked Master Wade to fix it without even telling him. It had been fastidiously cleaned, by none other than the Commander herself, but she had initially told him that it had been someone else.

And this was after he had snapped at her for asking about Adria, bringing up the most difficult issue between them, that of his father's death.

Looking back at that moment, he could only marvel at his bitterness.

Nathaniel cocks his arm back, bent at the elbow, sharply and repeatedly, trying to make the leather give under his form. It is a difficult thing, breaking in new armor, but this was the best set he has ever worn, and he feels that the skills hampered by ill-fitting armor will be easier to perform in such light and pliant leather.

He sees the Commander stepping out from the prisons, having a quick word with the guard stationed at the door. The man nods and moves to stand in front of the prison door completely.

Nathaniel notes this for later.

She walks towards him, minding the pouches of components at her hip and her pack. She seems to favor robes cut in the Tevinter style the most, most especially a blue-tinged set which he has always seen her wear. Her hair, long and thick is, as always, barely tamed and mostly falling into her face.

To his growing discomfort around her, he finds it rather endearing.

"As always, bright, early and chipper for the morning!" Anders announces his presence with a gratuitous yawn and slings his arm over Nathaniel's shoulders.

The gesture is unwelcome and the rogue shrugs it off none too gently, which sets the mage to chuckling. "Or maybe, foul, sour and surly." Anders clucks his tongue and wags a finger. "Now, remember what the Commander said…"

"What did the Commander say?" comes a soft question.

Anders suddenly straightens and smiles sheepishly at Neria as she strides over, adjusting the belt that holds her blade across her hip. The elf raises a delicate eyebrow and crosses her arms, a smile challenging the taller blond mage.

"That grumpy Wardens get toilet-cleaning duty!" Anders quips, and to Nathaniel's surprise and wonder, Neria's smile breaks into a girlish giggle. She slaps Anders' arm with a delicate hand.

"This isn't the Tower, Anders." She admonishes, then turns to Nathaniel, her face becoming serious. "But I did say something about grumpy Wardens…"

She turns to him, her eyes reading his face, and he tries his best not to scowl, but he feels he lost that battle long ago, and that he is always scowling. He remembers the unsaid apology of last night and forces himself to speak, but a small, sad smile quirks her lips and she shakes her head and looks away.

"Commander, last night…I wished to—"

"There ye are, elf! Where did my durned Legionnaire armor git to?" Oghren bellows as the dwarf approaches them from the steps, clanking noisily in shiny, blue-silver full plate.

"You're a Warden now, Oghren," the Commander begins, hands on her hips as she regards the dwarf, a completely different smile on her face this time, open and teasing. "You're wearing Warden Commander armor now, I thought you'd like it!"

"Ye had it downsized from when pike-twirler wore it, didn't ye?" the dwarf grunts, not seeming pleased at all.

Nathaniel sees her eyes tighten at what the dwarf said, her eyes flickering towards the door to the prisons for less than a second, unnoticeable to anyone who isn't paying complete attention to her elfin face.

"Well, it was either that or Cailan's old armor. Unless we're fighting another High dragon for the scales, I wouldn't want you wearing anything less than the best we have." she tells the dwarf.

"This is supposed to be yers, ye know." Oghren slurs, then reaches behind him to take a slug from a flask. "Ye're the sodding Warden Commander."

"You know I never liked wearing full plate." she explains, and Nathaniel begins to wonder why she ever had to wear a full plate when she was a mage.

"But pike-twirler and I were always right by telling ye, and when ye actually listened, ye weren't as beat up and bloody as ye usually was." Oghren retorts, waving his axe nonchalantly in the air, as if it was a stick to reprimand a child. Nathaniel hears her groan, exasperated, and she motions them to follow her, out the gates.

"That was before I knew how to hold a sword, Oghren." Her voice drops to a whisper, as if she was talking to herself. It feels intrusive of him to watch her at that moment, the look on her face betraying an unknown pain.

Nathaniel looks away, and thinks it is not the right time to be apologizing.

"And ye're supposing that fancy-shmancy girly sword work that giant taught ye will keep the blood off ye better than some dragonscale and a sturdy shield, eh?"

"Well, there's also you, Oghren." though her voice is still a whisper, it is tinged with hope. "You'll keep them off me, won't you?"

The dwarf chuckles, and straps his two-handed axe to his back, metal sliding against leather.

"Don't have to ask, Commander. Oghren's always got yer backside." The dwarf replies, followed by the naughty sound of "Hardeeharhar."

"And here I thought he was still sober." Anders shakes his head in disbelief, and the Commander smiles, wide and beautiful.

"He wouldn't be Oghren if he was." She starts to pat the dwarf's head, then thinks better of it, and pats the new shoulder of the Warden armor instead.

"Ready, Nathaniel?" she turns to him, finally, tilting her head at him, and with nothing but the apology on his mind, he can do nothing but nod tersely.

"Splendid."

Once again, she leads their group out of the safety of the Keep, the early morning sunlight warm on their faces. Nathaniel catches her sneak a quick glance back, her eyes looking past him to the prisons yet again.

He does not see the look on her face when she turns back towards the road, her eyes dark, her mouth set into a thin line of determination.

* * *

Kal Hirol is a festering wound.

Their descent into the gaping maw in the Knotwood Hills is an ominous prelude. Though Anders tries to dispel the heavy air of the Taint and something even stranger with smart comments, it does little to alleviate anyone's mood, especially Neria's.

Being Warden for over a year makes her the only one who is able to sense the darkspawn accurately, and the numbers she can feel below and beyond her are staggering. Aside from the undercurrent of the Taint flowing in her veins, there is something wrong with this place.

Of course, the veins of rotten-smelling yet pulsing flesh pods and pools of creeping congealed blood tell her that there are broodmothers within the thaig, but armed even with that knowledge, she feels an odd edge to the Taint. More than an incessant tug, a resonance with the darkness inside her, it feels jagged, frayed, as if the Taint was eating itself alive in her veins.

It unsettles her so much that she forgets about the man in the dungeons back in the Keep, and singlehandedly dispatches the hurlocks they find dragging a Legionnaire by the ankles.

Summoning the difficult enchantment to give her body magical strength and dexterity, her running jump puts her right on top of the darkspawn, ice exploding around her in a large, deadly radius. She lands spectacularly, going down on one bent knee, absorbing the shock of her fall and gaining momentum. Spellweaver slides from its scabbard at her side in a single motion, and at the exact moment, she focuses all the magical strength in a rolling wave from her center of gravity to her sword arm.

The technique shatters two frozen hurlocks, and with dexterity unnatural yet completely becoming on her delicate form, she pivots on her bent knee, the air shimmering around her as if white-hot, the follow-through of her blade responsible for freeing the dwarf completely.

Then she spins, reaching behind her for her staff, pointing it far off where an emissary stands, conjuring lightning. She feels heat rush past her, and after Anders' fireball knocks the genlock emissary off its feet, it lays writhing, flesh and the blood within it boiling, the tell-tale flames of blood magic rippling across her bodice.

She cannot control the ribbons of red, draining magic that seem to leak from her body involuntarily, and she stands amidst the melting blocks of darkspawn flesh, breathing hard for several long moments. She can still feel it, the strange, disjointed quality of the Taint around her, and her Warden senses are thrown in disarray.

She can feel them crawling deep in the thaig. But with them, there is something else, and she tries to focus, tries to sift through the familiar taint of hurlocks, shrieks, emissaries—but is met with a bloodcurdling, animalistic screaming and tearing in her head.

She drops her sword and staff, her hands coming up suddenly to cover her ears involuntarily, and the Wardens crowd around her, their faces worried and on edge as well.

"I know you can't sense them very well, but do you feel anything different?" she asks the rogue, mage and warrior before her. Behind them, the Legionnaire eyes her carefully through a horned helm.

"I feel like I'm about to be flogged." Anders says, glancing around him, then, noticing the Legionnaire behind them at last, after his Commander's spectacular display in rescuing him.

"Or like I've drunk a batch of dwarven ale that's gone bad." Oghren adds, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. He spits on a melting darkspawn head, a foul taste in his mouth.

"Nathaniel, you're the newest Warden, can you feel anything?" she turns to Nathaniel, who notices that she has not a spot of blood on he. He is in awe yet again, and it takes him a moment to reply.

"There is something amiss here…More than the darkspawn. We should be more careful." The rogue glances around furtively, noting the shadowy corners. "Perhaps it would be better if you allow us to help next time, Commander."

It was as if she had only realized what she had done, dispatching a team of darkspawn all by herself, wasting mana and stamina when there were three other perfectly-capable and dependable Wardens behind her, all taller and thicker-built than her.

"Oh. Yes, certainly. I'm sorry, everyone, I don't know what came over me." She shakes her head, trying to dispel the shock of the scream in her head. It bothered her more than she showed, and it was wise of Nathaniel to point out her mistake.

But still, slicing through darkspawn flesh never felt so good, and she felt some of the frustration from Alistair leave her.

Bending down to pick up Spellweaver and her staff from the ground, she sees the Legionnaire come up to them and remove his helmet.

To show a smiling, tattoed face, framed by two pigtails.

"Hurr, now that's a nice set of buns right there."

* * *

Thank you again for reading! Please leave a review if you have anything to say about my work.


	4. Chapter 4

**Salvation Under a Breath**

_disclaimer: lore, characters and settings belong to BioWare_

_

* * *

_

**Chapter IV**

Her name was Sigrun, and Neria thought she had the brightest smile in all the world.

To find a dwarf from the Legion of the Dead, no less, so full of cheer and light of heart in the unfolding horror that was Kal Hirol seemed like an answered prayer.

Not that she had prayed for anything. But Neria knew better than to spit on unexpected blessings.

The scout had gaped at her and called her pretty, of all things. But before Neria could speak properly with the female dwarf, the latter had waved a hasty goodbye.

And of all things to come to mind at the meeting with a Legionnaire, she thinks of the Hero of River Dane, who had called her pretty as well the first time she met him.

An image of Loghain, brooding and silent in Redcliffe passed behind her eyes, and she found herself almost on the verge of tears. He had been the consequence of the most difficult decision in her entire life, more difficult than her condemnation of Jowan. Sparing Loghain's life had cost her more than she was ready to give, and had stolen her peace and her ability to love from her, and left nothing but a Grey Warden.

But Loghain was nothing but helpful and efficient, if a bit surly. She chose to treat him as a Warden, as someone who shared the same goal. From there, she and he forged something deeper than a short friendship and Tainted brotherhood. With Loghain, things were less complicated, but were more profound, more meaningful, and with the way he acted, she felt every spell she flung was a step closer to her goal of dying by the Archdemon.

Ferelden really did owe Loghain more than it knew. He turned her into a magical darkspawn-killing juggernaut. She never remembered killing more darkspawn than with him.

When they saw Riordan's broken body in the rubble at the foot of Fort Drakon, he raced her to a hero's death. She let him win. He had pleaded for it, between the barked commands and the clash of steel. Beneath his steely, ice-blue eyes was a wish, and she felt it resonate within her. Just by looking straight into his eyes, she knew instantly that he wished for an end. She felt his desire, his purpose, and she would not deny him that. It was as if he was running after something.

What synergy and comfort she had with Alistair, Loghain replaced with burning purpose and unflagging determination. The time she spent fighting at his side was the most fulfilling of all her experiences as a Grey Warden.

She would never forget how he made her feel, at times, a perfect weapon, others, a magical artifact, and most rarely, when the darkspawn dreams took them both, like a beloved daughter. He did not hold her, or soothe her, she never thought it was a father's duty to do that. She thought a father should make his daughter feel like the strongest, bravest girl in the world, even if she was not.

Though her bedroll had become too big for her, and her tent colder than she remembered, a nod from the old general made her feel steadier on her feet than Alistair ever had.

Loghain made her feel like she was doing the right thing. He helped her discover the heroine within her, when Alistair's departure was sure to have made her nothing more than a woman bent on death.

He stood across her, a Tainted god dying between them, so many months ago. He smiled at her, and thanked her for the honor of fighting by her side.

_Warden Neria, knowing you has been my greatest honor._

He plunged his blade through the dragon's skull, and she did not take her eyes off his face. He said something, a name, perhaps, before the light and the roaring exploded around them.

She did not know it, but she was the last thing he saw before his soul was ripped apart. He thought her more magnificent than his Rowan, almost as precious, and he was borne away to the elsewhere of a precious dream.

There was nothing left for a pyre.

In a thaig broken by broodmothers, Neria grieved for Loghain Mac Tir.

"Commander?" Nathaniel's deep, throaty question saved her from the onslaught of tears just in time. She turned to the dark rogue, and wiped her eyes hastily. The Taint in this place was doing something strange to her.

She smiled at him, hoping it didn't offend him too much. Treading around his animosity was becoming difficult. Between Alistair back at the Keep, the Taint howling in her ears and her unshed tears for Loghain, she felt like she was about to come apart.

A fleshy sac near them began to twitch, and a gas was released into the air, smelling of corrupted flesh.

"Come on. I need to kill something." she said, and the Wardens walked forth into the beginning of a nightmare.

* * *

"…they said it was a golem."

"The dwarf said it was a golem and one of those talking darkspawn."

"Whatever it was, you should have seen her. Burns on her like a pig to the roast."

"Sure hope she pulls out all right. She saved me, you know."

"She's the Hero of Ferelden, idiot. She saved us all."

Alistair fought to control the urge to get up and ask what the guards were talking about. His whole body was tense, as if poised to strike. At the mention of 'burns', it had become unbearable, and with a disgusted groan, heaved himself up and clutched pathetically at the prison bars.

"Warden Neria's been hurt?" his voice was raspy from disuse. He felt as if his throat was lined with lyrium. Oily bangs fell before his eyes, and a dirty hand reached up to brush them away.

The two men outside the cell stopped their talking immediately, and looked menacingly at the prisoner.

"That's Warden Commander Neria to you, prisoner." Said the taller, lankier one. He was the one who had been guarding him from the first time he was brought here.

He ignored him for the other man. He was shorter but stockier, and Alistair could see he had the brown color of a farmer on his skin, even if he wore splintmail. He asked the same question again.

"Why would you want to know?" the dark-skinned soldier asked. "And who are you?"

"Just a wandering drunk." Alistair answered, and he suddenly felt foolish and needy, asking about her from a couple of guards. "I'm harmless. Couldn't hurt a mouse."

_Or an elf_. He added darkly.

_Why did he even want to know?_

_Why was he even here?_

There was a ringing in his head, that would not stop. He did not know if it was a side effect of his lack of lyrium or something else, but he had to shake his head roughly to even begin to hear clearly again.

"She's recovering. Saw them bring her in covered in bandages. Said she took on a lava golem, and one of them talking darkspawn."

"Talking…? Darkspawn?" Alistair wasn't quite sure he heard that bit correctly.

"Hey, you've said enough. Get back to your post before you tell this wandering drunk here what the Commander had for breakfast." The taller guard interjected, pushing the other soldier roughly towards the door.

"She wasn't here for breakfast…she was.." came the confused reply, and Alistair had begun to suspect this man was a farmer, wearing armor.

"Yes, I know . Come on now, git, Alec. And you, you're not to ask anything about the Commander anymore."

"Awww, and here I thought we were becoming great friends. I was about to name one of my children after you. The grumpy one."

Alistiar remembered the last time he cracked that joke, and it was an odd thing, wanting to cry at a joke. But he remembered that moment clearly, as if it was yesterday, and she looked fresh and ripe for the plucking, and he had not realized he would reap the harvest. He still had Duncan, and she was a slip of a girl with magic in her, and the Korcari Wilds were confusing and muddy. Many months had passed when he gave her the rose, that damnable, Maker-forsaken rose. He hoped she had thrown it away, or destroyed it. If he ever saw that rose again he would surely go out of his mind with rage and grief.

He did not hear the guard's angry reply, and turned back to lie down on the thin, filthy bedroll, a bottle of blue liquid coming unstoppered, much like the memories of her deep within him.

Alistair supposed it was night time, with the slanted rays of moonlight falling from the single hole that showed the sky outside. The temperature in the prisons was low, and he had woken to a dryness in his throat and an ache in his brain. He knew he had downed the last potion before he went to sleep, and the edge it gave him chased away his thoughts of her.

Now that he thought of it, he had been dreaming, but he couldn't remember it. He felt like he had been doused with cold water.

He reached for the filthy rag hanging on the wall, and when he had stripped off his filthy shirt to wipe himself, he noticed her. He hadn't even heard her breathing

He knew it was her, even if he couldn't see anything but the red hair at the moment slumped on top of the table, sleeping deeply. He walked as far as he could, his forehead smashed up against the bars, and he could make out bare shoulders. Her arms were crossed above her, and were covered in bandages.

At his feet, a trio of lyrium potions glinted up at him innocently. He bent down to pick them up, and held them within a clenched, white-knuckled fist.

He wanted nothing more than throw them at her. Yell at her. Smite her. Hurt her.

But beneath the rage and violence, was an equal but quieter, subtler desire. A desire to say her name in a whisper, against her forehead, into her hair, or in her delicate, pointed ear. Though not as loud as the Alistair that wants to watch her suffer, it was the Alistair that had more sense.

It bides its time, it waits, patiently, when he has no more lyrium, when his anger is spent, when his guard is down.

His hope is that he could squash that part of him like a butterfly beneath a rock.

She stirred, and if he peered closer, he could see she was bleeding through her bandages.

But he didn't, and he sat down against the cell bars instead. Her shadow was outlined against the far wall of his cell, and he watched that instead of looking directly at her. Imagining the skin, the hair, that would make up the outline of her darkness suited him better.

It was still painful to look at her.

Alistair did not know how long he looked at her shadow, or watched how she twitched in the light of the single torch. He knew he had taken only one lyrium potion, and had managed a few bites of his supper of cold stew, but she was still asleep, unmoving and silent save for shallow breathing.

Unseen, the Commander's bandages bled to red and yellow.

Alistair's nose crinkled when the smell of poultices and sickness began to permeate the air. He glanced to the usual spot he found the guard in and saw no one. It seemed the only occupants of the prisons were he and Neria. He was sure he didn't smell the least bit injured or sick. In fact, he knew he smelled like a mabari litter.

The man who would have been king stood up and clasped the bars of his cell again, but this time peered intently at the elven girl asleep on the table. The light of the torch above her was muted and dim, and all he could make out were her hair, shoulders and arms.

Her fingertips twitched, curling inward, and his eyes followed the path from her palms up to her wrists, then to her bandaged forearms, then stopped. There were dark stains along the white wrappings. Some of the stains were red splotches, while others were dark yellow or even brown. He strained further, mashing his brow against the bars, and he heard something drip onto the stone floor.

The light of the torch glinted off a small puddle of blood.

"Neria! You're bleeding." He hissed at her. "Neria."

He was answered by another drip of blood to the floor.

"Neria. Neria!" panic began to creep into his voice. "Hey! Wardens! She's here! She's hurt! Wardens!"

_Sodding elf. She never knew how to take care of herself._

He picked up an empty bottle and beat it against the bars. The sound echoed all around him, and he hoped it would make Neria _move, _but it didn't. He cursed how unaware he was of the time she had sat there, if she had spent the whole time bleeding to death.

"Neria! Get up, you witch or so help me, I'll…I'll..Neria..please, get up. Why are you here?" Alistair fell to his knees and listened to the sound of her blood falling to the floor. "Come on, please, for the love of Dog and his Maker-forsaken pantaloons, please?"

Some time later, perhaps too late, the door swung open.

"Commander?" a voice, soft and feminine accompanied the outlined form of a dwarf. Alistair watched as the small form rushed forward and touched Neria gently. He heard an indrawn breath, and the dwarf rushed out the door, clanking with heavy armor.

Alistair finally let out the breath he did not know he held, and stepped back, melting into the shadows of the cell. He stared at her slumped form all the while, his gaze sometimes drifting to the darkly glistening puddle of blood at her feet. It pained and thrilled him all at once.

Moments later, a tall figure, human and male, fell kneeling beside the unmoving Warden Commander. Alistair heard a soft curse uttered and the man bent low.

"Anders! She's here! I don't know what to do!" Alistair heard a gruff, throaty voice shout hoarsely, and soon enough, a figure in mage robes burst through the prison doors.

"Of all the bloody—give her here, she'll heal better with me. What in the Black City is she doing here? She'll scar like a demon if she keeps sneaking out of bed like this. How did she get past you anyway?"

"Sleep spell."

"What? She actually _cast_ something? I would've expected her to wake up screaming from all the burns! Sometimes I think killing darkspawn is easier, the way she carved through Kal Hirol like a Desire Demon on a Templar."

"Just get her back to bed and stop the bleeding. Varel's about to pull his hair out."

"And you're not? If I didn't know any better, I'd think you actually cared about her, instead of plotting ways to stomp on her kindness all the time."

"I do not stomp—not at…Will she scar horribly?"

"No, of course not, you think I'd let that happen? And since when did you care whether she scarred or not? You sure know how to give mixed signals, Howe."

Alistair sucked in an audible breath.

Two sets of eyes searched for him in the darkness of the cell, but only one voice spoke, low and husky.

"Who's there?"

* * *

_A/N: I know, short chapter, nothing much happened . life does that to me. I would really love to hear everyone's thoughts on this. I'll be posting my fics up on LJ so I can talk to you guys more..soon...thanks so much for reading. ^_^_


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